With You, Im Old
The conversation about divorce doesnt happen one late night after Mark first says everythings changed, nor does it happen when Catherine finds his mobile in the pocket of his blazer and sees messages that take her breath away. It actually happens on an ordinary February morning, as they eat breakfast in the kitchen and he says, without looking up from his mug:
Cath, we need to have a serious talk.
Go on.
I want a divorce.
Catherine sets down her cup quietly, almost delicately, as if afraid to break something fragile in the air.
Have you made up your mind?
I have.
She studies him. Mark sits opposite, silver at his temples, wearing that blue jumper she bought for his last birthday. He avoids eye contact, interested instead in the pattern on the tablecloth.
For Emily?
Catherine, lets not do names.
Why not? You dont want to say her name out loud? Or do you just want to act as if she doesnt exist?
Mark finally raises his eyes. Theres an expression Catherine has learned to read over twenty-five years: Hes made his decision and just needs her to make it easier for him.
Im tired, Cath. These past years have been hard for us both.
Hard for who? Me?
For both of us.
Dont speak for me. If its you who finds it hard, say so.
He sighs, leans back.
I dont want a scene. I just want us to separate like adults.
And what do you think adults do? Nod politely?
Catherine
Mark. Weve lived together for twenty-five years. Twenty-five. Do you remember that poky flat we rented from Mrs Wilkinson on Bell Street, where the windows iced over in winter? Do you remember how I went with you to creditors when you opened your first garage? How Id do your books at night while you slept? Do you remember?
I do. Im grateful for everything.
Im not asking for gratitude! Her voice quivers but she steadies herself. I want an explanation. Youre leaving me for a girl of twenty-six. Who works as a receptionist. Who doesnt even know how much went into building what youre using now.
Its not about her age.
Then what is it about?
He stares into his mug. Silence stretches on.
With you, I feel old, he says, barely a whisper.
Catherine looks at him for a long time. Then she stands, puts her cup in the sink, rinses it, dries her hands on the towel, all movements careful and purposeful, as if every gesture matters.
Youre forty-eight, Mark. You are getting old. Thats not my fault.
She walks out of the kitchen. Hes left sitting alone.
And so twenty-five years end. Not with shouting, not with smashed platesthough Catherine had sometimes desperately wanted to throw them. But with a quiet February morning, a mug of tea, and a comment about feeling old.
The divorce happens quickly, no drama. They never had children; at first it just didnt happen, and then they settled into a routine, filling the empty spaces with work and other peoples worries. The solicitors handle the split. Mark offers Catherine their three-bedroom flat in Richmondthe spare one they bought seven years agoand half their savings. He thinks this is generous. Perhaps it is. Catherine takes whats put on the table, no haggling. When her solicitor tries to negotiate more, she says, Thats enough.
Mark understands this as a sign that it all went well. That theyre civilised. That hes done things right.
Emily moves into his Surrey house in March. By April theyre off to Dubai. He snaps photos of her by the sea; she uploads them, tags Dubai. Mark studies these photos and thinks, this is itmy new life. Everything glimmers; it all seems right.
Emily is beautifulnothing original in the word, but it fits her like it fits a billboard: precise, eye-catching, and utterly hollow. Tall, bottle-blonde, dressed with the skill that comes not from taste but from money, and with a habit of holding her head high, as if always posing. When she enters a room, heads turn. Mark initially sees this as a virtue.
At his company, the staff at Benson Autos smile politelyand glance at each other behind her back. His old partner, Dave Collier, shakes her hand the first time they meet, then pulls Mark aside.
Shes a looker. Just keep your wits about you.
Whats that supposed to mean?
Nothing. Youre a grown man.
Mark tells himself Dave is jealous. People always envy those who make bold changes in life. Thats how he rationalises it.
The university reunion is set for the end of May. They meet every five years, and this time, Geoff Russell is organisinga solicitor with a taste for grandeur. Restaurant on the Thames, a dozen tables, live music, everything pre-paid.
Mark decides at once to take Emily. He imagines their entrance, his old mates seeing her, and maybe, just maybe, some of those who never envied him will feel something bordering on respect. He knows its petty, but the idea is oddly comforting.
Emily doesnt immediately agree.
So, wholl be there?
Uni friends. We studied together, long time ago.
They all well-off?
Some yes, some no.
Itll be boring. Old people.
Were only forty-eight, Em. Not exactly ancient.
Maybe not to you. I prefer a different crowd.
He goes to Abbey Lane Boutique, buys her a midnight-blue dress with an open back, full-length, not cheap. She tries it, glances in the mirror, says fine, and puts it in the wardrobe. Mark calls that acceptance.
They arrive at The Swan at eight. The place is buzzing. Mark spots Geoff, gone a bit bald and round, and Mike Taylor with his wife Susan, a proper, kind woman, always serious but warm-eyed. He sees Chris Watson, now a university lecturerstill dresses like a student, almost as if on purpose. Then comes Rachel Brownnow Dr Brownwith her husband Tom. Rachel has aged gracefully, the way some women do when they make peace with age instead of fighting it.
When Mark and Emily walk in, the conversation pauses, just a secondbut Mark feels it. Geoff hurries forward, hugs him.
Mark! Blimey, mate. Good to see you. Introduce us.
Emily, Mark says, with something a touch like pride.
Emily flashes her smilestraight teeth, pursed lips, gaze gliding about, settled on no one. The youngest, the best-dressed in the room. She knows it.
They sit. Mark finds himself beside Susan.
Wheres Cath? Susan asks before she remembers its the wrong question. We havent seen her in years. I called last year, she said
We divorced, Mark interrupts.
Susan falls silent. Looks at Emily. Emily is busy scrolling through her phone, upright on the table like a little shrine.
Right, Susan says evenly, and Mark cant tell what she means.
Dinner rolls on. Talk of children, work, someone boasting about their cottage, someone else griping about aches and pains. Geoff flourishes his hands over his new legal venture. Chris disputes him about education, both getting more animated. Mark listens, nods, pours himself more wine.
Emily, visibly bored, sits perfectly poised in her midnight dress, scrolling her phone, handing out likes. She snaps a photo of her food for Instagram.
Rachel tries to chat.
Emily, where do you work?
Car dealership. Receptionist. Not working at the moment, though.
Got it. And youve known Mark long?
Since last autumn.
How wonderful, Rachel replies in a tone you use when theres nothing to say.
Emily nods and returns to her phone.
Later comes a moment Mark wont forget. Mike Taylor, always amiable and a bit tipsy, leans over to Emily, asks something trivial about where she lives. Emily answers, and then, for no reason, asks:
How many square feet is your house?
Mike blinks. Sorry?
Your place. How big is it?
About 1,300, he says after a beat. Why?
Just curious, Emily shrugs.
Mark pretends not to have heard. But he did. And he sees Susan, who also heard, narrow her eyes and turn away slowly, as if in retreat.
Later, Rachel heads to the ladies. Susan follows. Mark steps out for a smoke at the same moment and overhears a snatch of their conversation, wasnt trying, just happened.
Still, I do feel sorry for him, Rachel says.
He should feel sorry for himself, Susan replies. Cathy did so much for him. Remember when his garage was in trouble? She never slept.
I remember. How is she now?
She called last week. Says shes well. Goes to her sisters in Spain. Lost weight, she says. Laughs a lot.
Good for her.
Good for her, Susan agrees.
Mark returns to the table, pours more wine. Emily is texting, smiling at her phone. He looks at her and thinks: Shes beautiful. Yes, beautiful. And what then?
The evening ends around eleven. Geoff proposes a toast to friendship that never rusts. They all drink, pose for photos, part with noisy goodbyes and promises not to vanish.
On the way to the car, Emily says, That was dull. Your friends seem to live in another era.
Theyre good people.
Sure. But not mine.
You were on your phone all night, Mark says, surprised at himself.
I was bored.
You didnt even try.
Mark, Im not here to entertain your uni mates. You wanted me there. I went, I smiled.
He has nothing to answer. Shes technically right but entirely wrong in all the important ways, only he cant explain. They get into his black Sentinel 4×4, the car he is still so proud of. Emily fastens her seatbelt, gets her phone.
They drive in silence.
Outside London, the road narrows, the night darker. Mark switches to main beam. Nearly midnight, only the odd lorry passes. He broods on Rachel and Susans conversation. Feel sorry for him. Catherine, possibly laughing in Spain. Emily, asking about house sizes.
Emily talks on beside him but hes not listening.
Mark?
What?
Are you even listening?
I am.
I said we ought to go to Atlas tomorrow. I need summer shoes.
Alright.
And Ritas birthdays next Friday, she wants us
He never hears the rest. Rounding a bend, a massive lorry lumbers into his lane. Mark sees the headlights, reacts fast, yanks the wheel right, tries for the verge, but the lane ends in a steep bank. The Sentinel thuds into earth, spins, and then something smashes into the front. The pain is instant, he cant breathe, and then he registers his left shoulder cracking and darkness folding over him, like thick English winter fog.
After that, nothing.
ICU smells like bleach and something else, a medical scent that lingers in memory forever. Mark comes to gradually. First, theres weight, his body sluggish as if made from clay. His left arm wont movepinned, he realises, in plaster. The pain is everywhere, but muffled, as if through cotton woolmust be the morphine.
A nurse leans over him, blue hairnet, soft voice.
Mr Peters? Can you hear me?
Yes, his voice foreign to his own ears.
Good. Lie still. Youre in intensive care, youre safe.
What The crash?
Yes. Dont move.
Emilythe girl who was with me?
Shes fine. Just bruises. Shes been discharged.
Discharged?
Yes. A few days ago.
Days?
You were unconscious for three days, Mr Peters.
Three days. He tries to grasp that. Three days hereand Emilys already discharged. Surely, shes visited. Sat by his bed, surely rang the doctors, worried. Surely.
When did she visit? he asks.
The nurse hesitates.
Ill check with the others, she says, stepping away.
Check what? Emily didnt come. Mark figures that out before the nurse returns, making vague excuses about different shifts and cant be certain. He can read between the lines by now.
Hes out of ICU a day later. Fractures: left shoulder, two ribs, crack in the right scapula. Concussion. Torn muscle. Serious, but not fatal. The young doctor tells him itll be at least a month, then rehab. Mark listens, nodding.
Four-bed ward, but only one other, an older chap with a broken leg, mostly asleep. Its terribly, desperately quiet.
His phones in the bedside locker, brought in with his things. No charger, but a nurse says shell find one. Mark waits for calls. He waits for Emily. Then, maybe calls from Geoff or Mike, surely theyll have heard? No one does. The phone sits there, black and mute.
That evening, when the charger comes, the phone powers up. There are three messages from Geoff: Heard about the crash, hope youre alright, then, Ring when you can, and, You OK? after another day. Nothing else.
From Emily: not a word.
Mark tries her number. Rings and rings. Voicemail. Hangs up. Tries again, an hour later. Voicemail.
He lies in his hospital bed, stares at the ceiling and cant stop asking: Why doesnt she answer? Maybe her phone died? Maybe she went somewhere? Maybe
But he knows. This maybe is empty. He just doesnt want the real answer.
On the third night, with dusk falling, the door opens. Mark turns, expecting a nurse with tablets, and sees Catherine.
She slips in quietly, always did. She carries a flask and a carrier bag. Dressed plainly: dark trousers, pale jumper, hair back. But something feels different, and Mark can at first only sense it. Then he realisesshe looks rested. Not younger in some silly way, just as if shes finally put down a very heavy bag.
Hi, she says.
Catherine, he manages, the only thing he can say.
She puts the bag on a chair, the flask on the locker. Looks at him with that mixture of pity and distance for which theres no word in English.
How are you?
Alright. Alive.
Thats the main thing.
She sits. He looks at her, at a loss. The pain isnt just from his injuries.
You on your own? he asks.
Yes.
Emily
I know its not Emily, Catherine says, dead flat. Thats why I came.
He falls silent. She opens the flask, pours broth into the lid. Steam, the scent of home cooking he hasnt smelled in months.
Drink. You need it.
Cath, why are you here?
Brought you things. Dave at work told me you were here. They rang Benson Autos, they told me. So, I brought you clean clothes, your charger, bits and bobs.
You rang my work?
They rang me.
He takes the broth, drinks. Hot, salty, real.
Cath
Dont. Dont start.
I just want to say
I said dont. Please.
I want to thank you.
She looks at him, then away.
No need.
Cath. Emily She hasnt come once. I call, but nothing.
I know.
You know?
Catherine folds her hands in her lap, calm, like someone whos long since absorbed this pain.
I heard things. People talk. Dave rang, he told me. Mark, do you realise you signed a power of attorney? For your assets?
Mark feels a cold shadow down his spine.
What?
About a month ago. Do you remember?
He does. Emily had brought forms, told him it was standard, just in case. Her solicitor said its wise, contingencies and all that. Hed signed. He was busy, hurried, and he trusted her.
I remember, he says.
Dave says the Sentinel is already sold. Using your signature.
Mark says nothing.
Your Swiss watches, the ones you collected Gone too. Dave and the company accountant checked; apparently theres something pending for the country house as well, some valuation requested.
She cant Its my property, the deeds
You gave her the authority, Catherine says simply.
He presses closed eyes. The ceiling weighs down.
She wasnt working alone?
Dont know the details. Some bloke. Not my business, Mark. Im just telling you what I know. After this its your move.
Catherine, Im sorry.
She doesnt answer right away. She looks away, out the window to the dark.
Sorry for what in particular?
For all of it. For leaving. For how I left. For saying I felt old with you. I shouldnt have.
No. You shouldnt.
Cath, you know you were Everything
Mark. She looks at him, not harsh, not angry, just with that look of someone whos finished grieving. Youre saying sorry because you feel bad now. Not because you understand. Because youre hurting. Theres a difference.
He wants to argue, finds no words.
Im not angry with you, she continues. Really. I was angry for a long time. Then I got tired. Then I let go. Now I feel good, and I dont want to fall back into it.
You look well, he says.
Thank you.
You truly are different.
Im just being myself, finally. Thats all.
They sit in silence. The old man shuffles in his sleep.
Dave says you need a solicitor. Power of attorney can be contested if you act fast. Hes coming tomorrow. Tell the nurses to let him in.
Fine.
Ill leave the phone to charge. Theres a charger in the bag. Clean clothes, toothbrush, all the rest.
Cath
Yes?
Will you come back?
She pauses by the door, honest about it.
No, Mark. I dont think so. I came to say goodbye, in truth. Im heading out soon. To see Val in Spain.
For long?
Dont know. Maybe for good. Ill see.
You going alone?
She smiles gently, not mocking but surprised by the questions innocence.
Im a grown woman, Mark. Ill manage.
I heard you met someone. Geoff
Geoff ought to talk less, she says calmly. Yes, theres someone. But its not your business.
I know.
Glad you do.
She takes the handle.
Get well, Mark. Really. Get up, sort this mess. Youve got your business, Dave, decent people who respect you. Dont fall apart.
Catherine.
She turns.
I love you. I want you to know that.
A long silence.
I know, Mark, she says softly. I used to love youtruly. What we had was real, and no one can take that. But that doesnt mean you can go back.
She leaves softly, the door closing behind her.
Mark lies in darkness. Hears the neighbour snore, the nurses chatting in the hall, the lift doors bangingsounds belonging to another world moving on.
He picks up his phone. Thinks about calling Emily. Doesnt. Instead, scrolls messages. Old ones. Their chats.
At first, her messages had spark, playful, exciting. Over time, they shrank. Ok. Later. Be there at ten. Cant today. He scrolls back to autumn. Messages hed ignored. Gaps when shed go silent for hours. The steady background chatter about money: You promised me a new ring, when are we off to the Med, I need a new bag, Mark, could you just send money? I hate having to ask.
He scrolls and doesnt recognise himself. Not the man in these chats, but the one who read them and accepted them as normal.
Then he stumbles across something never meant for him. An old chat with Rifat, not deleted, which somehow syncs to his device. He doesnt get it at first. But thenhe does. Two people, clearly close, not just friends. Messages from last October, months after he and Emily began.
He still suspects nothing.
Got him to sign?
Last week. All going to plan.
Youre clever.
Just wait. After an accident or if hes away for a while. Then we finalise.
He reads it twice over, then again, slowly.
No, the accident wasnt staged. That was chance. The rest had been planned. All the rest, from nearly the start. And he, someone with two decades of business smarts, who could read contracts and people, had missed it. Missed it because hed wanted to. Because he liked the idea that a young, stunning woman loved himnot the business hed built with Catherine, not the house, not the Sentinel, but him.
Traded in for a younger modelthats what people say. He always thought that phrase coarse and unfair. Now, he saw it fits perfectly.
He lies there a long time, not sleeping, thinking of Catherinemaybe flying home, or packing for Spain. He thinks about her saying, I know, to his I love you. Not me too, not too late, not why say it. Just I know. And in that is everything: she believes it, but doesnt need it now.
He thinks of the reunion, Emily asking Mike about house size, Susan turning away, himself pretending not to notice. Bitter experience always arrives too late to change things.
In the bag Catherine brought, beneath clean clothes and a soft-back book (she remembered he liked reading in hospital since his appendicitis in 2008), he finds a photo.
Small, glossy, paper. Him and Catherine, young. Hes about twenty-seven, she twenty-six. Theyre outdoors one summer, by a river. Hes laughing, head flung back. She looks at him in a way he cant describe but instantly knows. That is how you look when you love trulynot infatuated, not needy, just sure, for keeps.
Theres a note, folded small. Her handwriting, as familiar as her voice.
This isnt mine. Its yours for keeping. Get well. C.
Nothing more.
He holds the photo and note in silence. The old man next door snores. Outside, a soft May rain taps against the window, steady and patient.
Mark Peters, forty-eight, owner of Benson Autos, lies in a hospital ward with two broken ribs, a broken shoulder, a fractured scapula and a brain injury, holding a photograph from twenty years past. On the locker sits a flask of soup Catherine made, the woman he left because with her, he felt old.
There is a certain, mirthless English irony in all this which he only now truly senses.
He thinks about betrayalnot by someone else, but by himself. How easy it seemed to claim it was just stuck in a rut, tired, needed something new. Good enough for self-delusion, not as justification. There is no justification.
Catherine left. Not the other way round. He thought he left her, but really, she left himin her own way: quietly, without drama, without malice, without trashing what they built. She simply moved on, starting a new life. Soon shell be in Spain. Laughing, according to Susan.
He contemplates valuesoften talked about as if something external, in books or speeches. But values are just whatever is beside you every day, so much that you stop noticing. The woman who did your books each night. Who knew every creditor by name. Who never asked about house sizes. Who brought you broth, even when you gave her every reason not to.
After forty-five, relationships take a different shape. This isnt youth; mistakes dont just fade away. Any mistake you make stays with you, becomes part of who you are now. And you just live with it.
He understands this now, with a clarity only a genuine smash can give you.
Around one in the morning, he tries Emily once more. Her phones off. Subscriber unavailable. He is not surprised. He puts away the phone, takes out the solicitors business card Catherine gave him. Dave is coming tomorrow. Hell start sorting the messthe Sentinel, the watches, the country house. Itll be long, grim, humiliating work, explaining how you let yourself be had.
But hell do it.
Because to simply lie here and give up isnt allowedif only out of the stubbornness thats always kept him going. He built a garage from scratch in the 90s when everything was precarious. Hes negotiated with people who didnt want to be bargained with. Hes survived what seemed impossible. He knows how.
Anger starts to bubblegentle, purposeful frustration at himself, for having indulged in such luxurious blindness.
He turns on his side, as much as the ribs allow, puts the photo by the soup flask. Young Mark laughs in the photo, head thrown back. Young Catherine gazes at him.
Its one thing to know love is gone. Its another to realise you betrayed it yourself. That, he reckons, doesnt heal with anyone elses youth, or a flashy car, or a thousand seaside selfies.
At Heathrow, Catherine Peters, now Catherine Harristaking back her maiden namesits by her gate, a small suitcase at her feet. Her flights delayed, but she doesnt mind. She drinks a paper cup of coffee, gazes out at the runways.
She knows she was right to visit Mark. Not out of duty or hope, but because twenty-five years arent thrown away like rubbish, and shes not someone who leaves a man in hospital to think hes truly alone.
She thought especially about the photograph. Shed found it three months ago, sorting her things. Held it a long while. Decidedit should be his. She didnt need it. She carried the real memories inside. He could have the paper one, if ever he needed something real in his hand.
Her phone buzzesVal texts: On the way to meet you at the airport. Antonios coming, cant wait to finally meet. Antonio. Catherine smiles. Its all strange, unusualscary, evenbut good. At forty-seven, after twenty-five years married, after all shes lived through, shes at the edge of something new. She has no idea what will come. And shes in no hurry to find out.
For so long, her life had belonged to someone elsenot in a bad way, just how it happens: his worries, his work, his problems, his dreams. She stood by him, loved her role, never resented it. But now, its hers. Her time, her bag, her coffee, her flight, her Spain, her Val, and this new and unknown Antonio.
After forty-five, new beginnings arent like those at twenty. No rushing to define or force anything. Theres just calm curiositylets see what happens.
Her boarding call is announced. Catherine drains her coffee, pitches the cup, and takes up her bag. At the gate, theres a mixstudents with rucksacks, older folk with big cases, families. She joins the queue.
Out the huge window, a jet rolls onto the tarmac. Sunlight glints off the runway.
Catherine thinks: thank goodness Im not angry. It would be such a wastefury at a man who couldnt cope with age, who wanted sparkle not warmth. Anger at the young woman who took advantage of weakness. All that only eats up space inside youspace she needs now for something else.
She thinks: a hard lesson awaits him. Its already waiting. She feels sorry for him, in that gentle way you do for someone far awaynot to help, just to feel a touch of regret.
Her passport scanned, she heads down the airbridge. The plane gleams, ready.
Catherine finds her window seat, slides away her case, fastens the belt. She looks out at the airfields twinkling lights.
How do you know when love is gone? Probably when it stops aching. Not suddenly, but by degrees. Like a scab that heals: at first, it hurts every day, then now and then, then only if you bump it by mistake, then only a scar which bothers you no more. A scar is only a mark. It doesnt stop you living.
The engines thunder. Theyre off. Catherine watches as the ground drops away, Heathrow shrinking, London sprawling grey and wide in the morning.
She doesnt look back.
Mark lies in his hospital bed. Rain falls beyond the glass. The photograph stays on his locker. Next to it, the soup Catherine made cools in its lid.
Dave will be there at ten. The solicitor after. Therell be long, difficult conversations, court maybe, ugly details. Itll hurt.
But first, hell get better. He will get up. Thats certain.
He takes the photo again, studies it. Then he sets it back, face up, so he can see it.
The rain taps on the glass, quietly, patiently, endlessly.
